Best Laid Plans
by Indigo2831
Summary: Tag to 10.21 "Dark Dynasty." Sam has Charlie's blood on his hands. This is unseen aftermath of Charlie's death and funeral. Slight warning for mentions of blood and gore.


Hi, everyone! Whoa, it's been a long time! I've been focusing on building my writing portfolio and I've been working so hard at my current career, so I haven't had much time for fan fic, though I still love it and reflexively write it in my head when I'm bored. I also haven't been loving "Supernatural" lately, especially after they killed Charlie for shock and never mentioned her again. Thankfully I'm on vacation and found some time to clean up a bunch of unfinished fics I still haven't posted. This one I wrote after "Dark Dynasty" after Charlie was fridged. Please let me know what you think!

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 **Best Laid Plans**

Time had the ability of speeding up and slowing down with a merciless whim. Stanford had been one blissful blur of coursework, cheap food, sometimes suffocating freedom and breath-taking love.

The years since had passed with a lackadaisical slither. Every trauma had been dragged out, like pulled taffy. Days often felt like lifetimes.

Sam had gotten used to existing in that arduous sluggishness of time. So when they discovered Charlie's body in the bathtub, Sam tried to place a peculiar sound, between the cavernous breadths between heartbeats, the negative space between seconds. It was an echoing gurgle, sporadic and small, yet he heard it over the din of Dean's panicked denial.

The inquisitiveness was easier to focus on than the woman slumped brokenly in the bathtub. The woman he'd loved and would have gladly died to protect.

Bile lurched up his throat, but Sam choked it down with a searing swallow. He'd seen death in its infinitely varied forms, from clean and bloodless to rotten and gooey. He'd seen heads roll on the pavement like tumbling cantaloupes and smelled the musky tang of brain matter. Everyone was just meat inside, powered by the soul's energy.

There was no energy in this room.

He'd heard the noise again: a prolonged burping drip.

Frowning, he stepped into the bathroom. It was glacially cold, the tile retaining the chill from the air that seeped in through the rotten, albeit barred window.

Suddenly he was kneeling in front of it without memory of movement. Sam couldn't even remember Charlie being still. Even when she slept, she moved with restlessness, her mind refusing to completely submit to sleep.

A shaking hand ghosted over her arm, and Sam gasped. She was still warm, despite the frigidity of the bathroom.

Lightning flashed, glinting off the silver of the faucet. And suddenly Sam knew what the sound was: Charlie's blood flowing down the tub's drain like the last dregs of the bathwater. If she was still bleeding, maybe she was still alive.

Time careened now, flying with primal urgency on fleeting winds of hope. Sam had lifted Charlie within a day of their first meeting. She had been light and delicate like a hummingbird. After life as a hunter and months on the run, she was heavier, fortified by muscle, cheap food and Winchester-gleaned baggage. Her legs and arms flopped as if made of rubber as he snatched her up and out of the tub.

Sam placed her on the bathroom floor, pressing his head against her chest. There was no breath or heartbeat. But Sam wasn't discouraged. He could manufacture breath and he could manually beat her heart, and then Charlie's energy, that effervescence that chased away the gloom of their world, would overtake death.

Dying wasn't a big deal. They had all done it before. Living was the ultimate challenge.

Sam tilted her head back, shocking red hair fanning out over the scuffed, sun-baked tile. Curly and thick. He breathed for her, and began compressions.

As he performed CPR, time ceased to matter again. His muscles ached and sweat soaked through his undershirt, dripped down his face. Static cluttered his view of the urine-and-muck-stained toilet, Sam was grateful for that even if it meant he wasn't getting enough air. He'd give it to her. If she needed his blood, she could have that too.

He mouthed apologies when her ribs broke-tiny explosions detonated by his own hands—but he didn't stop. Any moment now, her heart would start beating again and she'd breathe on her own.

He'd forgotten about Dean but his big brother's hands were on him now, violently tugging him away. "Stop this…this isn't right, Sam. She's gone."

Sam shrugged him off. "CPR is different now. It changed...a while back," he panted. "100 compressions then two breaths."

With a half-growled sob, Dean grabbed his head, a clammy palms on his chin and forehead, and angled his face down so he could see the puddle of burgundy he was now kneeling in. He compressed her chest again and there was another ripple and the pool spread. He wasn't saving her, but pumping the blood out of her body.

He snatched his hands away in an instant. Denial was more pervasive than any demon he'd ever face, any angel that would ever possess him. Sam was a Men of Letters. He subsisted on information, and needed more now. He knew that he was the why but he needed the how. There were no visible wounds in her chest, neck and face. Even more, Charlie looked pale and bloody, but otherwise unharmed. He braced her with one arm and turned Charlie's body slightly. The gaping wound, the grooves in it was forensic proof that he had not only stabbed her in the back but dragged the knife to the side, like slicing of a thick rope.

He'd severed her spine.

Sam scrambled back, plummeting background physically and chronologically. He slammed against the doorjam as his mind traveled back to Cold Oak and the white-hot pain, an agony that reverberated through him with lethal precision. Beyond the pain, it was a burst of sensation—cold, warm, tingle, prickle, sting, burn, itch—a final cacophony of feeling before it all stopped. Before numbness descended and it was just mud and rain and Dean's horrified smile.

Sam's teeth clicked together, and he flailed to get to his feet, a heel slipping on in the puddle of her blood. He powered through the motel room, barely breeching the doorway before he threw up, the sound of the splatter lost in the rain. His legs wouldn't hold him as guilt and grief pounded him to the neon-dappled concrete below.

His teeth chattered and his stomach continued to rebel, poisoned by his own actions, the gruesome result of his desperation to save Dean. He dry-heaved onto the pavement.

Lightning struck, illuminating his brother's looming over him, all broad shoulders and horrified, lethal expression. "You're in shock." Sam swallowed, thick-headed from CPR and his own hyperventilation. "Charlie's dead, Sam. Those body-snatching freaks slaughtered her." Dean seethed. "Is that sinking in yet?"

Sam lifted a hand in surrender, wishing Dean would stop stalling and start punching. At least this time, he deserved it. His outstretched hand was literally covered in Charlie's blood.

He had been ruthlessly pragmatic in his planning, checking and re-checking every move he made. The outcome was saving Dean's soul and preventing him from becoming a knight of hell, but not at the expense of anyone else. Chaining up Rowena kept her from killing others with her volatile spells. Her terms, killing Crowley, had been long overdue. Castiel was a newly-minted Angel of the Lord—a warrior imbued with God's power, and overqualified to contain a leashed witch and a chatty genius.

 _Where had it gone wrong?_

He turned it over and over in his mind. Regret and hindsight shedding light on a million blunders when pride and fear had glossed over.

Dean was pacing in front of him, hands in his hair, muttering brokenly. His hands were shaking, hatred polluted his eyes. Dean was a timebomb of bloodthirsty fury and Charlie's death may have lit the fuse. Even without The Mark of Cain, Dean would have exploded with fists and righteous anger to disguise the vulnerability of grief.

"This is exactly what I didn't want. I'm not worth any of this!"

Sam faltered. There was no explanation or rationale that could wash this one clean.

Dean violently towed Sam to his feet by his collar so they were nose-to-nose. The rain pounding the awning above but the lightning flashed in his eyes. "We are going to clean up her, give her the funeral she never should've needed. You are going to tear down whatever you've got cookin' _behind my back_. Then you will stay out of my sight until I can stomach looking at you."

Dean shoved Sam towards the car.

They bagged Charlie in plastic, wrapping her tightly. Dean's gloved hands collected her possessions while Sam mopped and scrubbed the blood with peroxide.

Within an hour the room was stripped, all evidence of Charlie's massacre swept clean, her body in the backseat of the Impala.

They built the funeral pyre eleven miles from the bunker. With winter still lingering in the Kansas, it was little more than the barren stumps of trees and miles of muddy brown fields, but in a few months it would be brilliantly green and peppered with blooming flowers and chirping birds. Sam would mark her grave with some sort of flowering tree. He'd thought she'd like a magnolia.

Sam positioned her on the top, pulling the plastic free. He often teased her about her milky complexion but now, she was a dusky gray, lips darkened, eyes slitted open. He stood there for a moment, arranging her and threading his fingers through her hair that somehow still smelled of vanilla and gardenias.

He rubbed the soft flannel of her blood-stained overshirt, and huffed a soft laugh and remembered the time they bought it.

 **-14 months ago-**

Sam recovered from the trials the same way he endured them: through sheer will and determination. He spent his days puffing himself up to convince Dean that he wasn't dying or sick, and then he'd hoped he could believe it too.

Anger and fear were always great motivators, and right now, Sam was livid. He'd gotten a terrified phone call from Charlie, who had ran into some trouble while working a case one state over. Dean was taking their overworked profit for a bit of R&R, so it was Sam to the rescue.

His lungs barely twinged as he jogged across the parking lot to Charlie's motel room and knocked, stooping a bit so he was visible through the peephole. The locks jingled but the door didn't open. Sam huffed, "Are you going to make me say it?"

"Yes."

Sam glanced around and pressed his mouth to the door. "Hermione's patronus is an otter."

Sam heard the metallic turning of tumblers, saw a streak of vibrant red before he was nearly knocked over by 5'5" of fledging hunter and scared friend. Sam staggered back a couple of steps from the force but his arms closed around her slight frame easily. He tucked his chin over the top her head, eyes panning the empty parking lot for threats. Whoever made his dear friend shudder in his arms he'd gleefully tear apart with his bare hands. "You're good," Sam said lightly. "You're safe." He shifted her to the side and shuffled them into the motel room.

Sam knew what the evidence of hard living on a solo hunt looked like, and he'd knew exactly how Charlie had spent the past few days just from the overrun garbage cans, the piles of vending machine wrappers and the small pile of weapons stashed about the room for easy access. He was proud that Charlie was applying all that he and Dean had taught her, but it broke his heart that she had to utilize these skills at all. She deserved far better than this. Sam took one look at Charlie, all shadowed eyes and rumpled clothes, and took over, not caring if he overstepped. "You're gonna shower, and we're going to go get some food and figure this out, okay?"

Charlie few in a deep breath, stitching herself together, and began pulling weapons out of her pockets and setting them on the bed. Sam saw a flash of skin and the faded colors of a tattoo before he turned around, inspecting the doorframe.

Grateful for the company, Charlie chattered through her shower, forcing Sam to lean against the door way to listen. It had all started with a straightforward case: a simple poltergeist in a family home, the only casualty had been the family dog. Charlie purified the house of the spirit before anyone had been hurt, but Charlie was now being followed. "He's got the 'Creeper' Starter Pack: weird tattoos, sunglasses, wallet chain. He's got blond hair, about 5'9". He's wiry but I think he's packin'. I've made him in two states."

"Well you've clearly picked up a tail. Let's see what the bitch wants."

They went to a crowded bar in the tiny town's main street. Charlie entered first and Sam followed her in fifteen minutes later. They sat at different tables back-to-back.

Charlie's head was tilted back, her gaze transfixed on the ceiling above. Sam mirrored her. The ceiling was festooned with dated kitschy decorations—paper lanterns, handmade garlands, tinsel streamers, even a disco ball. It was inexplicable and unique.

Sam had barely finished his beer before the man showed. He looked just as conspicuous as Charlie had described. Sam's eyes tracked him to the bar and then over to the corner, his anger replicating within him like a fast-growing cancer. He ordered a beer, and set at a high table to leer at a flustered, exhausted Charlie.

Sam leaned back, and slid out of his chair without a word. He weaved through the crowd with purpose, advancing but never looking at the man. As soon as he was in arm's reach, Sam struck like a viper, gripping the frail little bastard by the throat and arm and hauled him down the darkened hallway.

He punched through the employee entrance and shoved him on his knees with more restraint than he deserved. While creeper hacked and gulped for air, Sam snatched his wallet from the chain. He flipped it open. "Russell Retting…I think we need to talk."

"What the hell, man?" Russell coughed, red-faced and affronted.

"You've been following someone, a young woman…"

"Red," he said with a dreamy smirk which Sam promptly slapped off his face. The sunglasses flew off and skidded across the pavement.

" _My sister_ ," he corrected with a growl. The word, while foreign on his tongue, was an accurate summary of his feelings. There was a shorthand between them, coupled in love and sometimes irritation (when she wouldn't listen to him). Sam would walk through fire for her if necessary because of the experiences they shared.

Russell's muddy blue eyes widened and he backed up, his hands flailing in immediate and terrified surrender. "No, man. It's not like that."

Sam stalked forward. Russell slammed into the side of a reeking dumpster. "You've got 20 seconds."

"I'm a blogger, man. For an occult website. I caught wind of some weird shizz goin' down in a in Oklahoma house. I got there in time to witness Red in action. There were pots and books swirling around the room, but Red had it totally under control. It was epic. The article went insta-viral, so I kept followin' her, hoping to get more scoops."

Sam's anger shifted to irate bewilderment. This man had terrorized Charlie, and he was nothing more than a supernatural ambulance chaser. It was all he could do to not clean-and-jerk the asshole into the dumpster. Instead he plunged his hand inside Russell's vest. What Charlie had feared was a gun was actually a digital recorder, an old-fashioned journalist's notepad, and a pricey EMF reader. Sam pocketed the items, glaring when Russell bleated in outrage. "So you're searching for the supernatural scoop, huh?"

Russell regarded him warily. "Yes."

"Well I've got a great headline for you: 'Blogger Trailed By Hellhounds.' You like that one?"

He blanched. "Not so much."

"How about 'Weaselly Douchebag Beaten To Death In Alley'?"

"Loving it less."

Sam glared at the cowering writer, and lowered his voice to an octave reserved for intimidating demons. "If you value your life, you will go back to writing about Bigfoot and Loch Ness sightings and stay as far away from that woman and me as possible. We are involved in things that will make you piss your pants...before it tears you apart from the inside out. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Russell nodded, stricken.

"If I find you within 100 miles of her, you won't see it comin'."

He nodded fiercely, like a bobblehead in an earthquake.

Sam made a hissing noise and jerked his head towards the door. "Go."

Russell bolted, breezing past a stunned Charlie, tossing out heartfelt, half-sobbed apologies.

Sam handed her his cash and credit cards, pocketed the license for further monitoring. Sam took a deep breath to clear the haze of anger. "He won't bother you again."

"So I heard," Charlie said tensely. Sam startled at the tone. Charlie seemed upset. Sam blinked, waiting for the inevitable expression.

What came was an unpulled punch to the arm.

Sam gripped his biceps, affronted and a bit surprised by how much it hurt. "You're welcome!" He bleated.

"I could have handled him myself. What are you some kind of Neanderthal?! I wanted to kick his ass. You stole that from me!" Charlie yelled, irate. Her skin was quickly becoming as vibrantly crimson as her hair.

Sam rubbed his arm and threw his hands up. "You called me for help. I do just that and you start throwin' punches?"

"I could have done it myself!" Charlie repeated, nostrils flaring, voice breaking.

Sam blinked and really looked at her as her face flushed red and her eyes glistened. The outrage abated immediately, because he understood what it was like to be alone. He could only guess how hard the life of an orphan had been. The hand he placed on her shoulder was gentle. "But you don't have to. You're my family, which means you don't have to do everything yourself. Not anymore, okay?"

Charlie nodded and swallowed thickly. "I always wanted a brother."

"Now your have two." Sam roughly pulled her in and fought the urge to scrub his knuckles over her head like Dean had done to him while he was short enough. Instead she threaded her arm around his waist and they walked through the gate and onto the main street.

"Maybe my next alias will be Charlie Winchester."

Sam barked a laugh. "If you're gonna be a Winchester, you have to dress like one. I saw a thrift store down the street."

"Holy Flannel, Batman!" Charlie beamed, happy in a way Sam had never seen her.

 **-NOW-**

Sam rolled the soft pink and lavender flannel between his fingers. Charlie had bought with Russell's money and put it on before leaving the store. Sam had stayed the night for a "Hunger Games" movie marathon complete with drinking games, laughing until his eyes teared and his stomach cramped. It had been one of those extraordinarily normal moments that powered him through bleak times when all he could see what evil and death. It was one of those memories that kept him human and whole when the only sane option was to transform into the very monsters they hunted.

Sam swept the cloth over her face and moved back to give Dean time. Whenever he dared to care for a woman, it always ended in fire and blood and grief.

But as Charlie burned and the Mark yawned wide and swallowed Dean whole, Sam once again began the process of reassembling himself after being shattered by tragedy. Though this time, there was a considerable large and colorful piece missing. Charlie had known that this about more than one life, but the greater good. As the flames licked higher, consuming yet another person he'd loved, Sam compartmentalized his grief, tucking it away for a later time. He strode away from the pyre determined to save Dean or join her on the other side.


End file.
